My mom had surgery. I asked the surgeon, "What's the recovery time frame, what can she eat, what's the prognosis? What does her future look like? What do I need to do?"
My dear brother in law died. Just like that. Now I worry about my sister, "What will her future bring? What's she going to do? Can I help her, protect her, shield her? "
My daughter just moved and two of my three sons are moving this summer. I talk to them and my questions aren't always spoken, "Who will be their neighbors, will they be friendly? Will they be able to sell their house, find another one, afford to live there? Where should he store his stuff during grad school? How can I help?"
I don't dwell on the past. It's over. I've learned good lessons. Time to move on. But somedays I do dwell in the future more than I'd like to admit. And it's not just the big crisis that occupy my mind. It's the small stuff, too.
Someday I want to paint my laundry room cabinets. But what color? How should I landscape my prairie yard? Will aspen trees grow here? Can I plant a spruce over there and when should I dig a hole for it? In the spring I get out there and dig in the dirt. When it's warmer, I want to paint more, maybe someday have a real art studio. Next winter, I want to try snowshoeing. Tomorrow I need to plan the next trip to see the kids. On and on and on.
Living in the future can go on and on. But we never arrive. We just plan or fret, wonder or worry.
Messing around with grandchildren, or any other small people you aren't responsible for, is an excellent distraction from endless ruminations on the future. Worrying about their future is their parents' issue.
You just get to play.
My daughter and her family are visiting my South Dakota cabin. It's a bit tight- the stone fireplace is too close to the only seating area and sure enough, the baby girl bumped her head on the hearth and has a mark. The open log steps are a heart stopper when she decides to climb up them when no one is looking. But the big porch is great for the "chase me and I get to scream" game- her two year old brother's favorite.
And this grandmother, known as Bebe to the adorable ones, is perfectly willing to create car tunnels from art journals, toss sidewalk chalk into the tall grass ( Yeah, two can play that game, Buddy...) and spit watermelon seeds off the balcony.
I am fully present.
Before my grandchildren were born, women friends waxed eloquently on the joys of grand-parenting and also their amazing sense of responsibility toward the next generation. Kinda freaked me out. I was wound a bit tight with my own babies and had a enormous, anxiety producing sense of responsibility toward my children. I don't check on them when they are sleeping, but somedays I wake up with a urge to call them up and see if they are ok, make sure they are thriving. I don't. Usually.
I play cars with Mater and McQueen. (If you haven't
watched Pixar Cars, check it out.) 
I kiss smooth bellies and that sweet spot behind soft ears and revel in grins and giggles. I change diapers and marvel at baby dimples and sturdy toddler legs.
I don't want them to grow up too fast but I have great confidence that when they do, they will be just fine. They are loved. Just like me.
Does He really delight in me like I delight in them? Does he look at my dimples and sturdy legs and smile? Does he look at me and know that it will all be just fine? When I run to him with open arms, does his heart swell too?
Heaven will be heaven because it's always the present. Time is our way of ordering life in this place. It works but someday, it will pass away and we'll all be in the same moment. Fully present, fully joyful, fully confident of being loved and loving. Like little children.
Truly I say to you,
unless you repent (
change, turn about)
and
become like little
children (trusting, lowly, loving, forgiving),
you can never enter
the kingdom of heaven. Matthew
18:3
I don't really understand repent but I can change, I can turn about, I can choose.... to be more present, more childlike, more prepared for that endless day when all I have to do is love.
